Why can't you be horrible and full of unforgivable flaws?
Why does it gets worse and not better inside my stupid, devoted heart?
Why do you still feel the same to me?
Your skin hasn't lost that scent I knew
The scent I still know and can remember by simply closing my eyes
The scent I still desire and find familiar
Even if it really never was

When you see her cry
     you get a rag,
a gentle delicate cloth.
                                        Lovingly grasp her hand
                                               and dab its tip;
                                       dry each tear as they come.
                                                           ­                               And ask each drop
                                                            ­                                   why it'd leave
                                                           ­                               such beautiful eyes.

  If she wishes
to be in the sky,
  tell her to go.
                              Take the sun ransom,
                              and replace its shining
                                    with her own.
                                                            ­          So you can see her every morning
                                                         ­                          and wish for her
                                                                ­                  return each night.

When you see her scars
  both visible and non-
    touch each gently.
                                             And remind her
                                       that each and every hurt
                                            she has survived,
                                                       ­                                 has only made her
                                                                ­                   that much more unique;
                                                         ­                              that much stronger.

  Show her that she
  is a special person
and is worthy of love.
                                     That she deserves the love
                                            she fears to give...
                                            show her so that
                                                            ­                     one day after you're gone
                                                            ­                      she can find the strength
                                                                ­                    to go on without you.

    Tell her that while
she might not be a goddess
far above worldly desires,
                                          that she is amazing,
                                         for just being herself
                                    for being that beautiful girl
                                                            ­                   who thinks herself damaged
                                                         ­                         when in truth she's just
                                                            ­                    a different kind of beautiful.

   And finally, love her.
  Like a boy loves a girl
Till she finally remembers
                                            that that's what she is:
                                          not a scar, not a goddess,
                                             not a star. But a girl.
                                                           ­                         That deserves to be loved.

Sorry.

Not for the bruises inscribed in my knees at six years old,
or gravel-shaped cuts dotting my palms
after being kicked off my bike like a rodeo bull,
or even the sliver of a scar on my right index finger
from closing it in a van door when I was seven.

No, I have no remorse
for the innocent;
not a twinge of sympathy regarding the unfortunate results
of relatively harmless careless actions
and playful worth-it memories.

I’m sorry for the other things.

I don’t mean running
or swimming
or dancing
until the soreness embedded itself in my muscles, my
heart racing, pulse pounding
in my ears.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry
for the other things.

I’m sorry for hating you.
I’m sorry for all of the
preening and plucking and
shaving and waxing and
hair burning.

I’m sorry for the countless repulsed glances at the spot
where my stomach puffs out
and all of the daggers I stared into the place
where my thighs meet.

I am sorry for getting slashed at
by the perfectly intact glass
of the bathroom mirror, for feeling severed,
just by seeing its reflective surface.

I’m not sorry for taking up space,
but I’m sorry I ever was.

I am sorry for
switch off the light,
lock the door,
the scratch of fingers in my throat
and the starkness of the cold linoleum floor
routines
I practiced because I loathed
the way you curved
and the fatness of my pseudo-waist.

I’m sorry for falling into patterns of self-hate
that I aimed at you. Patterns
not unlike that of an alcoholic,
commencing with afternoon drinks or slightly restricted meals
and ending with wildly depressing stories to tell
and crying on stranger’s floors—
but there is no Lackers of Self-Esteem Anonymous,
no chips to collect
for every time I tell myself I’m beautiful
or, better yet, value more
than my appearance.

I am sorry for thin red lines that ran deep into my wrists
and I am sorry for the faint-inducing heat
that followed,
caused by the oversized and long-sleeved sweatshirts I hopelessly donned
to cover you up.

I’m sorry for discarding that one dress
(that you looked stellar in, by the way)
because I had degenerated into such an unhealthy
and addictively abhorrent relationship with you
that I feared
even the slightest tightness
in my attire.

I’m sorry for habitual body monitoring. I’m sorry
for using my fingers to count calories
and not positive attributes. I’m sorry
for all of the aforementioned repugnant routines
I’ve picked up over the past few years,
whether I’ve stopped them or not,
I’m sorry.

I am.

So, body, when I say
that this is an apology note,
I don’t mean I’m sorry for  the time
I skipped salad and went straight to pizza,
or even the countless dinners when
I put an extra brownie on my plate.

No, I have no remorse for that.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry for hating you.

But, like a sinner coming up after sinking
in a blessed lake of holy water,
I am ready to fill my lungs with new breath. I will repent
with the radical act of self-love

and I promise that I will treat you better.

Angels and cancer
Two TOTALLY dIfFeReNt things
My world
                    C
                       O
                           L
                     L
                   A
                          P
                              S
                           E
                        D
                                        when you died
My lungs stopped breathing and my heart beating
I miss just sitting watching Wheel Of Fortune or Jeopardy  
with you stroking my hair
I miss going to the bakeries
and pretty much  E  V   E  R  Y  W  H  E  R  E

I still have your bracelets
and wore them on my birthday
They make me feel closetoyou
and not so far                        a               w                                    a                                 y

When I see angels, chickens, bakeries, or antique shops
I feel comfort and see you
I really hope you know that even though we're apart,
I still really love you

This letter is for my Grandma Liz
and I hope she knows how much we miss her
I still have her angels but
her love will always be more than a

w
    h
       i
         s
           p
              e
                 r

Happiness is the sun shining brightly
on a cold spring day.
It's an Olaf that sings
while skipping away.

It's a child's squeal of delight
when being tickled by their mother.
Happiness is accomplishing a hard task
and receiving a reward like no other.

It's the laughter of close friends
with one person who made a joke.
Happiness is getting a question right
even though no one spoke.

Happiness exists everywhere
especially when most needed.
Many people don't think it
but happiness can be repeated.

I wish everyone could be happy
especially when they're most down.
Less muscles are used to smile
than to make a frown.

Surrounded with malevolent thorns,
She is always waiting.
Waiting for the rain to pour,
for the sun to start shining.
The colors she comes in differ, but hers is red.
Red as a traitor's blood that the only thing
that was important was that they bled.
They bled for a war that couldn't be won for the time being.
She may appear sweet and pretty
but she has endured tough things.
She's learned lessons that have made her witty.
Even in struggles that fill her with abhorrence of it, she sings.
Her song is happy but bittersweet
with scars for every pain.
She really is a pleasure to meet
and is quite a friend to gain.
Some people don't get too close
because of all her thorns and appearance.
But some people get close
and see that the thorns are transparent
that reveal the beauty inside her.
She is a Rose.
This is the middle name I bear.
Rose was the name my parents chose.
She is me, my mom, and my great grandmother.
A Rose is what I am proud to be.
This name will never be a bother
as it is an everlasting part of me.